


Kind

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, softe but also sadde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: Geralt held the pipe that Jaskier had passed him carefully, as though he might break it. "You know this won't work on me, right?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 364





	Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from [natthewombat](https://natthewombat.tumblr.com/)! I don't usually post stuff this short to AO3, but I really liked it. There might be more later but also maybe not.

Geralt held the pipe that Jaskier had passed him carefully, as though he might break it. "You know this won't work on me, right?"

Jaskier, who had already taken a deep puff of the stuff, looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Witchers can't get drunk," Geralt said. "At least, not on regular liquor. I doubt this—what did you call it? I doubt it'll be any different."

"Cannabis," Jaskier said, pronouncing the word lovingly. "And you never know. It doesn't feel like alcohol, maybe it'll work differently."

With a shrug, Geralt put the pipe to his mouth and inhaled, more to be polite than anything else. After all, Jaskier had apparently gone to significant effort to get hold of the stuff; that he was sharing it with Geralt was a measure of real friendship, and it would be rude to refuse. The smoke burned a little, and dried out his mouth, but he took another puff and quickly got used to it.

"There you go," Jaskier said, smiling as he took the pipe back. "You're a natural, didn't even cough. I coughed like the devil my first time."

"Hm," Geralt said. "Don't feel anything yet."

"Oh, I've heard that before." Jaskier's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Keep going, give it a minute."

So they passed it back and forth in pleasant silence until the crumbled, fragrant dried flowers that had filled the bowl were only ashes, at which point Jaskier tapped it out onto the ground and pulled out his pouch to fill it again.

"Feeling anything yet?" he asked. He clearly was; he'd started to sway gently from side to side, and his face seemed locked in a soft, pleased smile. Geralt took a quick inventory of his senses.

"Not yet," he said. And then, not really knowing why, he said, "Maybe I should try some more."

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea," Jaskier said, beaming. "Here, you light it this time, I hate messing about with a flint." He held the pipe out and Geralt cast the gentlest of Ignis, just enough to get it going. Jaskier handed it to him then, not even taking a draw himself first. Geralt breathed it in, and already the smoke felt less acrid, the taste less offputting. He found himself puffing away for several minutes, until suddenly Jaskier leaned forward and plucked the pipe from his hands. 

"Careful now," he said. His voice was very gentle, and it sat pleasantly on Geralt's skin. "If this does work on you, I don't want you going overboard your first time. Let's just sit a bit, see if it kicks in."

Sitting by the fire next to Jaskier seemed like a lovely thing to do, so Geralt nodded agreeably and sat. He hadn't realized before what a beautiful night it was—he'd noticed the clear skies, of course, when assessing the weather and deciding whether to camp in the open or build a lean-to to shelter under, and he'd been aware of the temperature and humidity as potentially relevant facts, but no more. Now, sat before a crackling fire, he felt that he could actually appreciate the cool, dry evening air, and the riotous spill of stars across the sky, forming familiar shapes he hadn't really looked at in years.

He didn't realize he was staring at them until Jaskier nudged him companionably. "What are you looking at?"

"The stars," Geralt said, still gazing upwards. "There's so many of them, and they're so bright."

"You're _smiling,_ " Jaskier said, voice rich with delight. "So much for cannabis not working on witchers, hmm? Look at you."

Geralt felt a faint echo of embarrassment, as though he _ought_ to be embarrassed, and an even fainter echo of alarm, because he was—he realized now—in no state to keep an alert watch for any danger. But they were only echoes in the back of his mind; the rest of him was occupied with feeling better than he had in—hell. A long time.

"Give me some more of that," he said, reaching for the pipe, but Jaskier pulled it out of his reach.

"Just a bit more," he said. "Let me fill it again, it's gone out." 

Geralt managed to tear his gaze away from the night sky to watch with fascination as Jaskier emptied the bowl and filled it again, fingers working delicately to crush the dried flower buds down to the right size, then gently tamping them down with a light touch. He had always liked Jaskier's hands, though he tried not to think about it much. He wasn't sure _why_ he shouldn't think about it, though. They were beautiful hands, fine but strong, the calluses on his fingertips a testament to his skill.

Jaskier took a deep draw off the pipe, then sighed rather beatifically and handed it to Geralt. "That's enough for me, I think," he said. "I'm feeling about as fine as I can handle."

"That's good," Geralt said, and took a puff himself. It was hard to close his mouth around the stem, he realized, because he couldn't seem to stop smiling. "You deserve to feel good, Jaskier," he said, and with the hand that wasn't holding the pipe he reached for Jaskier's hand, took it and turned it palm up in his own.

Jaskier jumped a little when Geralt touched him, but he settled easily. "Oh, you're definitely high," he said, his voice warm and fond. The sound of it tingled over Geralt's skin wonderfully. He was, he realized; he was undeniably affected. Apparently his resistance to alcohol had no bearing on this particular substance. This time not even a distant ghost of alarm haunted him at the realization, and its absence felt almost as good as the presence of pleasure.

He was still holding Jaskier's hand, he realized, drawing slow circles over the palm with his thumb as he drew more deep breaths from the pipe. He glanced up. "Is this okay?"

"What, you holding my hand?" Jaskier smiled, a little crookedly. "I don't object, darling. Go right ahead."

Permission granted, Geralt started to stroke up each finger, lingering on the callused tips, unreasonably fascinated by their texture—the contrast of the smooth, unworked skin of his palm with the rough layers of horn he'd built up over the years. He hardly even noticed when Jaskier gently plucked the pipe from his other hand; he'd stopped smoking by now, too absorbed in his task of examining Jaskier's fingers. No, not examining, he thought. Something more than that. _Knowing._ He wanted to _know_ Jaskier, the way he knew the night sky.

He glanced up and met Jaskier's soft gaze, and for a moment he felt captured by it. He'd seen Jaskier look at him like that before, but only in stolen moments—usually when he thought Geralt wasn't looking, or when Geralt was terribly injured (though never so terribly as Jaskier believed). He'd always liked it, although—for reasons that escaped him at present—he'd never cared to admit to himself that he liked it.

"May I," he said, and lifted Jaskier's hand to his mouth. His lips were tingling, a wonderful feeling, and he knew that the feel of Jaskier's calluses against them would be even more wonderful.

Jaskier's eyes widened. "Uh. Yes? Sure, I guess." His heartbeat had quickened when Geralt asked, but he didn't smell afraid, and there wasn't any fear in his voice. Geralt supposed that this was odd behavior, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. He closed his eyes and gently pressed his parted lips to Jaskier's fingertips, and the sensation of the callused skin grazing them was as lovely as he'd imagined. Jaskier's heart thumped away almost frantically now like a deep drum, pounding a beat too fast to dance to.

"My lips feel amazing," Geralt murmured, because they _did_ , and it felt imperative to give voice to that fact. He opened his eyes. "Do yours too?"

"I—I—" Jaskier stuttered. There was a deep flush high on his cheekbones now, and it made him look beautifully delicate, though Geralt knew he was no such thing. Jaskier was stronger than he looked, and tall and broad, but at the moment he looked as though a harsh word might shatter him to pieces. A wave of unbearable tenderness swept over Geralt then, and a desperate need to make sure Jaskier felt as good as he was feeling right now. He kissed each fingertip, enjoying the choked noise Jaskier made, and the sudden strong scent that floated up between them. It wasn't new—he'd smelled Jaskier's arousal before, often in the early days of their acquaintance, then less frequently, except when Jaskier returned to their shared room after bedding someone. But it had never entirely gone away for good.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, speaking slowly and carefully, "are you sure—I don't think you'll be glad you did this, when you're sober again."

The quiet sadness in his voice ached fiercely in Geralt's chest, and he couldn't stand it. He pulled Jaskier close and he came with no resistance, letting Geralt press their foreheads together, though his face was still pinched with worry.

"You deserve to feel good," Geralt told him again, and kissed him. Jaskier made a strangled noise that might have been a protest or simple shock, and kissed him back fiercely.

For several long minutes they kept on like that, Geralt's hands roving over Jaskier's back and neck and sides as they kissed, slow lazy kisses, and deep. When he tried to pull Jaskier down with him to the ground, though, Jaskier stiffened and pulled away.

"Geralt, no," he said, sounding like it pained him to say it. "Not—you won't want this, later. When you feel like yourself again."

"I hate feeling like myself," Geralt said, and the note of petulance in his voice should have embarrassed him, but he didn't seem capable of feeling that emotion right now. "I like feeling this way. This is better."

Jaskier's face crumpled at that, eyes bright and sad. "Oh, darling," he said softly. "I'm sorry. But I'm not going to fuck you while you're high, you'd never forgive me."

"I'll always forgive you," Geralt said simply—because it was true, and how could Jaskier not know that by now? But Jaskier only shook his head, eyes starting to shine wetly, and pulled Geralt back up to sitting. 

"Come on," he said, leaning up against him, arms wrapping him up in an embrace that Geralt gladly sank into. "Let's just wait it out, all right? Let's just—you can feel good, and I'll feel good, and we'll feel good together. But not like that. Okay?"

Geralt nodded, tucking Jaskier's head under his chin. "Okay," he agreed, and it was as if his arousal had been a dream he'd had years ago, vanished like smoke. This was good, holding Jaskier like this, and he couldn't imagine wanting more.

Jaskier took a deep breath and settled in against him, and they didn't speak for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/625982074987429888/kind-somestars-the-witcher-tv-archive-of)


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